


all of this

by orangetequila



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin x Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Holding Hands, The Mandalorian x Reader - Freeform, This was cathartic to write, bit of nerves, din djarin x you, helmet!!!!, the mandalorian x you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24789640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangetequila/pseuds/orangetequila
Summary: Mando is at the dresser, back turned from you. You watch as he methodically removes his armour, arranging each piece neatly on the desk. His visor turns, carefully unclipping the buckles of his vambrace, removing it from his forearm, and placing it down so gently that it barely makes a noise.Or maybe it did make a noise. The rush of your own blood might be drowning it out.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 153





	all of this

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially just about holding hands, but it became A Little More Than That. hope you enjoy!  
> find me on tumblr @mandolovian

There was a certain shift in the air, and it wasn’t a sudden change; gradually, over the course of hours, the air had become heavier, denser, and every breath required just that little more effort to reach the crevices of your lungs. 

The curve of his beskar helmet glinted in the darkness.

Mando is at the dresser, back turned from you. You watch as he methodically removes his armour, arranging each piece neatly on the desk. His visor turns, carefully unclipping the buckles of his vambrace, removing it from his forearm, and placing it down so gently that it barely makes a noise.

Or maybe it did make a noise. The rush of your own blood might be drowning it out. 

His forearms and shoulders are bare of beskar, and his hand curves over his shoulder, following the strap of his chest plates in search of the buckle, while his other hand holds his plate against his body. The straps fall away, left then right, and he catches the plate before it has the chance to hit the ground. It joins the growing pile of armour on the dresser, and the flimsy structure groans under its weight. 

Without his armour, the Mandalorian stands straighter, and turns his head to stretch his neck, his helmet catching what little light was able to come through the slats of the window. The muscles on his back shift under his shirt, tensing then relaxing, his rib cage widening with each deep breath. He curls then uncurls his fists at his sides, before pulling off his leather gloves a finger at a time. A sigh leaves him, made shallow by the modulator, and he lays the gloves on top of the pile of beskar. 

He turns his visor to face you. Sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, you clasp and unclasp your fingers a little incessantly, a little anxiously, a little desperately. You were waiting, waiting, how long have you been waiting for?

He tilts his head to his right, questioning. The visor dups slightly downwards to watch your hands, which stilled under his gaze. He shifts again to meet your eyes, still trained on the glass of his visor.

You barely register the soft sounds his feet made as he walks towards the bed, the thin mattress dipping as he places one knee, then two, until he’s sitting back against his feet in front of you. 

And it was like the air between you is lead, like every breath is dragging you all the way to the core of the planet, and stars it’s become so dark.

Mando’s knees press against your shins, and it’s like your brain just short-circuits. All of sudden, the air just lifts, almost straight out of your chest, and all you can feel is the heat radiating off his body, pouring over you in waves, pulsing and thrumming and drawing you closer. His hands press against your knees, and they’re so hot, gentle as they slowly brush up, his thumbs skirting the inside of your thighs, until they reach your hands. 

You unclasp your fingers almost instantly as his entwine with yours. His hands are decidedly larger, weather-worn from spending years inside gloves. You trace the veins on the back, follow the scars crowning his knuckles, and brush your thumb along the length of his fingers. He stretched his hand against the inside of your wrist, scratching gently at the soft skin there, pressing against your pulse and huffing out a breath when he registered just how fast it is.

You watch as his hands turn to grasp yours firmly, tight enough to turn his knuckles pale. 

‘You have me,’ he whispers, and it’s too quiet for his modulator to pick up, and instead the words slip under his helmet and caress you, finding a place in the deep recesses of your heart and makes home there. You feel the breathy baritone in your bones, and you want to hold this moment, hold him, just you and him sitting on a poorly made bed, in a cold inn on a forgotten planet in the stretches of the Outer Rim. 

‘You have all of this, all of me, if you’ll have me.’

Letting out a sigh, you untangle your fingers from his. You uncross your legs, over Mando’s thighs until they’re on the bed on either side of his hips. Almost instinctively, his hands lower to your hips, grasping firmly and pulling until you were sitting on his lap. Your breath becomes shallow, and you try to avoid thinking about just how warm he is.

Slowly, in an attempt to calm your own nerves, you move to rest your forearms against his shoulders. The cords of muscle relax, and his head gently tips forward, waiting and anticipating. His helmet presses against your forehead, and you can hear his breath, and the soft groan he makes as you bring your fingers to the back of his neck, slipping under the beskar to brush against the soft hair you can reach. 

‘All of you?’ you ask, breathless. He tightens his grip on your hips, and nods against you. 

‘All of me,’ he says, sounding just as breathless. ‘Go ahead.’

Your fingers trace around the lip of his helmet until they find the latch. You press it, and the helmet lets out a soft hiss, and you find that you can gently manoeuvre it upwards. As the curve of his mouth comes into sight, you shut your eyes tightly out of instinct, and your hands freeze. His hands leave your hips to cover yours, helping you lift the helmet off completely, and rests it on the bed next to you. 

‘Is this alright?’ you ask, your eyes still shut, as you run your fingers along the coarse hair of his cheek, the slope of his nose, the lines between his eyebrows, before coming to a stop against his lips. He presses his forehead to yours again, but this you feel his breath fanning out across your face.

‘Hey,’ he says, rubbing your torso. ‘It’s just me, you’ve got me.’

He presses his lips to yours, and it’s almost as if it’s warming you from the inside, stretching out to the tips of your fingers, leaving them numb. He pulls away and you sigh, and tilts his head so he can kiss your furrowed brow, and it’s enough to coax you to open your eyes. You blink, adjusting to the darkness and allowing him to come into focus. 

‘Hi, cyar’ika.’ 

‘Hi, Din.’


End file.
